


Get Me to the Church on Time

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Not A Lot Of Plot, Rare Pairings, Romance, mostly: Gwaine! Phwooargh!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin insists that Hunith should bring her new (fictional) partner to his wedding. Rather than panic, Hunith decides to ask her PA to find her a suitable professional escort. But the scruffy-haired specimen who turns up on her doorstep isn't quite what she had in mind, despite his undeniable charm. Still, she rapidly finds herself growing to enjoy his company - even when she starts to suspect that he's hiding something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Me to the Church on Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agirlnametruth](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=agirlnametruth).



> Written for this lovely prompt for this month's theme "Mistaken Identity" on the Merlin Writers comment fic page: http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/129528.html?thread=1568760#t1568760
> 
> Originally posted here: http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/129528.html?thread=1594104#t1594104
> 
> Unbeta-ed, I'm afraid. 
> 
> Rated teen and up for mild, rare expletives.

“Of course, darling." Hunith smiles into the phone. "Wild horses would not stop me from being at your wedding.”

“Oh mum, that’s brilliant,” says her beloved son, sounding relieved. “It will mean so much to Arthur and me to have you there. Will you be bringing your new sha—er—fella? I mean, I know you said he’s really busy and all that, but it would be lovely to finally meet the bloke who’s making my mother happy, shake his hand, you know?”

It’s lucky Merlin can’t see the way she bites her lip and gazes at the ceiling while she tries to think of something to say.

“Well, I can’t promise anything,” she says, carefully. “He travels a lot.”

“It would mean the world to have him there, mum, you know? It would make the family seem so much more complete. Especially with Uther bringing Katrina... It's just there are so many Pendragons? And Arthur would be the first to admit that they're a bit... you know.”

Hunith nods, although he can’t see that. It would be good to dilute the combined impact of the Pendragons. Individually, of course, they're all lovely. It's just that all together like that—well. 

“But I understand if he can’t come.” Merlin adds. “I mean, you said he’s a busy bloke and everything.” His voice sounds so hopeful that she just can’t bring herself to tell him the truth, that she’s fabricated her so-called partner to stop Merlin from worrying about her. "What did you say he does, again?"

“Oh, goodness, dear, is that the time?” she says. "Got to run! I have a meeting, my love. We'll catch up later!"

Hastily, she rings off and turns to her immaculately dressed PA, Gwen, who’s giving her one of those soft-eyed head-on-one side sympathetic looks she excels at.

“Trouble?” says Gwen, sliding the day’s reports onto her desk.

Hunith sighs. “I don’t suppose you know someone who owns a discreet, professional male escort agency?” If anyone can get her out of her predicament, Gwen can. Hunith’s lost count of the times that Gwen has solved seemingly intractable problems before breakfast. She’s less of a PA and more a fairy godmother, at times.

Gwen’s expression has changed now, to one of puzzled amusement. “I might, actually.” She pulls out a notebook and pen. Tongue peeping out of one corner of her mouth, she clicks the pen and starts to write. “Let me know the details and I’ll see what I can do.”

##

The door rings at 10.32, nearly thirty minutes early, but she can deal with that. It would be good to get to the venue before everyone else, to check that everything is tickety-boo.

Pulling a face at the mirror, she puts the final touches to her lipstick and checks for mascara disasters. With a satisfied click she snaps shut her clutch bag. Swiftly she clatters to the door and wrenches it open.

For a moment, she thinks that Gwen must have made a mistake after all. The scruffy, bearded young man standing outside is wearing a pair of jeans, cut so low as to be borderline scandalous. The t-shirt, though clean, clearly won’t be appropriate for the wedding. He’s not bad looking though, in a rakish sort of way, and the silver-wrapped parcel, with its ostentatious bow, is a nice touch, so she’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Um. Are you Hunith Emrys?” he says, his voice pleasantly deep, with a hint of rural Ireland that adds to his charm. “I’m Gwaine. Gwen sent me. I’m here to—”

“You must be the escort,” she says, gazing appraisingly down her nose at him for a moment. “A little scruffy, but you’ll do, with a bit of work. Come in. As it happens, I have a freshly dry-cleaned suit of my son’s in the wardrobe. You’re a bit shorter than him, but I have safety pins.”

He just stands there, looking a bit confused, so she grabs his arm and pulls him through the door.

“Come along,” she says. His cologne smells pleasant, at least—manly, without being overpowering—and his hair, though long, looks very clean. She can’t help noticing the way that firm muscles in his upper arm bulge and flex under her fingers. “I’ll fill you in on your back-story while we sort out your outfit.”

He grins at her, then, looking her up and down with an insolent, appraising sort of expression that makes her feel about fifteen again.

“So I’m acting a role, am I?” he says. “I’m all ears. What’s the payoff?”

“Didn’t they settle that with you in the office?” She uses her sharpest possible voice on him, to disguise the way that his predatory expression makes her pulse race, because, deary me, she hasn’t had a man look at her like that for years, not since— well, anyway, he’s very good looking, she thinks, catching sight of a well-rounded rump as he strides through the long hallway towards the living room.

That’s when she decides that actually Gwen has done rather well.

“In the office?” He looks puzzled again, before his face turns sly. She recognises the expression: it's one that people, typically men, adopt when they're trying to put one over on her in business. She usually manages to turn the way that people underestimate her to her advantage. “They said cash. Up front. A thousand quid.”

It’s less than she was prepared to pay, actually, and his face looks so delighted, when she says yes, that she feels almost sorry for him.

“I’ve just got to make a ph— actually have you got a loo I can use?” he adds. “Before we get started on the costume, that is.”

She laughs, because it seems funny, but strangely appropriate in the circumstances, to refer to one of her son’s suits as a costume. “Over here” she says, smiling.

##

Gwaine only takes a few minutes to get ready. When he comes down, the impact of the transformation renders her temporarily speechless.

Crikey Moses! He looks completely edible in Merlin’s suit.

It’s a tiny bit too long in the leg, so she fusses for a moment at the hems of his trousers, trying to ignore how close her head is to his crotch.

“There,” she says, but she catches a male whiff, it smells like directness, unambiguity, and, gosh, sex. She suddenly realises how long it’s been since she smelt that scent, and it takes every ounce of willpower she’s got to stop herself inhaling too obviously. Rocking back, onto her demure heels, she smiles at him through her lashes. “You’ll do.” 

He steadies her with a warm hand as she struggles to her feet. “Thanks” he replies, his voice a seductive purr. “Now are you going to tell me the role you’d like me to play, today, Mrs Emrys? I’m all ears.” He steps up towards her, invading her personal space, but she doesn’t feel crowded. “As long as it involves being close to you, I think I’ll enjoy it.”

“Stop it, you big flirt!” Alarmed to find herself blushing like a schoolgirl, she punches him half-heartedly on the arm. “Now, sit down and behave yourself, young man. Here’s what I want you to do.”

He crosses to the sofa, where he sits, gently hitching up the trouser on one leg before crossing it over the other. A flash of pale flesh below the trouser leg reveals a very, very hairy leg. She blushes even more furiously when she sees that he notices her looking.

“Just wanted to check that the hem was all right,” she says defensively.

He gives her a knowing look, all cock-sure and direct. “Really? And there was me thinking you were ogling my furry Irish legs,” he says. “I don’t mind! Here, want to see a little bit more?” he hitches the trouser leg up even further, and she can’t help it, she bursts out into fits of giggles.

“Stop it!” she says, again. “You’re a cheeky devil! You’d best be on your best behaviour, this afternoon! It’s my son’s wedding, you know. Can’t have you scandalising him, or his husband. And his new father-in-law is frightfully proper.”

“Really?” He looks disappointed. “Are you sure? Scandalising the frightfully proper father-in-law sounds like fun.”

She chuckles. “Best not. Let’s wait til after the wedding, at least. By the sound of things my son had to talk rather fast to get accepted into the household.”

Gwaine nods. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman. So, I take it, I’m to be your partner?”

“Oh, yes, didn’t Gwen tell you?” It’s most unlike Gwen to be so inefficient. “You’re my partner. You’ve been travelling a lot, that’s why you haven’t met my son. Oh, and we’ve only been together for a few months… you’re a bit younger than me…” make that a lot younger, she thinks, “...but you make me very happy.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he says.

She likes the way that his smile makes his eyes crinkle. They’re slightly lop-sided eyes, but it doesn’t matter; it merely adds to his charm.

“What do I do? For a living, I mean.” He leans back, with his arms along the sofa, and his legs thrust out in front of him so that she can't help noticing how those suit trousers bulge across his crotch, and she has to tear her eyes away before he notices her looking. “Something that makes me travel a lot. People will ask, you know.”

“I’ve never really said.” She shrugs. “I haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”

He laughs. “That’s because you’re a woman. People don’t always ask a woman what she does. For work, I mean. Although maybe they do, when she’s so obviously successful and used to giving orders as you are.”

She’s blushing furiously again, and it’s nothing to do with the praise, she has grown inured to the praise over the years. No, it’s all about the way his eyes trace the outline of her well-cut powder-blue suit, lingering over the plunging neckline.

“People always ask a man, though,” he says. “What do you suggest I say?”

“Well, I can’t very well tell them the truth, can I?” Hunith frowns, rummaging in her bag as if it holds the answers.

“How about an actor?” he says. When she looks up, he's beaming at her. “It’s not so far from the truth, now, is it? And if I’ve been away filming, that might explain why your son hasn’t met me, and all?”

She considers this for a moment, then nods. He’s not stupid, this boy. Not by a long chalk. Standing, she walks over to where he’s still seated and pats him gently on the cheek.

“Very good, Gwaine, dear,” she says. “Very good indeed. Now come along. We might as well go; there’s no reason to dilly dally. Chop, chop now!”

“Yes, Mrs Emrys,” he says.

“Oh, call me Hunith, Gwaine, dear.” Her feet clack noisily across the wood floor to the front door. “We are meant to be intimate, after all.”

“With pleasure,” he says, stepping up behind her.

Startled, she feels a firm arm wind itself round her waist, gentle fingers lifting a stray lock of hair, and a gust of warm breath. Soft, moist lips press a kiss to the back of her neck that makes her shoulders tense and her spine tingle.

“Might as well start as I mean to go on,” he says, almost whispering, “beautiful Hunith. I love your perfume, by the way.” Those tantalising lips withdraw. “Chanel number 19? It suits you.”

She feels the ends of her lips lift. Oh yes. She really does think she might enjoy having Gwaine by her side.

##

 

Merlin looks puzzled, when she introduces him to Gwaine. His brows draw together. Fighting the urge to smooth them with a maternal finger, she sighs instead, and fusses with his bow tie. He does look very dapper, she thinks, although he could have shaved a little better. These boys, nowadays, seem to like a bit of scruff on their cheeks. Mind you, looking at Gwaine, she thinks she understands why.

She's always liked a bit of scruff, herself, after all. 

“You look lovely, dear,” she says, softly, planting a kiss on Merlin’s cheek. “Try to smile. You’re meant to be enjoying yourself.”

Merlin’s frown deepens. “I am enjoying myself,” he protests. He turns to Gwaine. “Hello? I’m Merlin. You must be… I’m sure I know you from somewhere?”

“Perhaps you’ve seen one of my movies,” says Gwaine, brazenly.

Audacious! Hunith likes him more and more with every passing moment.

Merlin looks like he’s swallowed a pickle. “Erm… what did you say your name was again?”

“Gwaine. Gwaine Green.” He extends a forthright hand, and grins, that debonair, tooth-gleamingly self-confident grin that makes his claims to be an actor utterly believable.

Merlin’s eyes are out on stalks. “Bloody hell,” he whispers, nudging his fiance. “Arthur!” he hisses. But Arthur holds up a hand; he’s deep in conversation with his sister about the speeches.

And really, she thought she’d brought her son up better than that. “Manners, Merlin, dear,” she says, briskly.

With a jolt, as if shaking himself, Merlin finally extends a hand, and pumps Gwaine’s, a little over-enthusiastically, she thinks. “Erm…” he says, with a glazed expression on his face, “... Erm… gosh! Well. It’s amazing to meet you. I mean. Lovely. Lovely to meet you. Gosh. And you… my mother? I mean. Really? Wow! Gosh.”

Gwaine nods, and Merlin’s face turns a deep shade of beetroot. “Bloody hell!” he says again, looking from Hunith to Gwaine and back again.

As if to underline the situation, Gwaine draws her to him, winding his left arm around her waist—his right arm still being occupied by Merlin’s never-ending handshake—and, bending, places a not-very chaste kiss on her lips. His beard tickles her chin and she finds herself giggling like a schoolgirl, and swatting him on the arm with her clutch bag until he lets her go with a rakish smirk.

Well, really! Although, she can’t help thinking that the smudge of her lipstick on his chin looks rather good on him.

Merlin’s face is a picture, but there’s really no need to act so surprised that Hunith has managed to snag such a very handsome new boyfriend. She’s rather offended.

In response to Hunith’s pointed “Ahem!”, Merlin finally releases Gwaine’s hand and nudges the oblivious Arthur again.

“Close your mouth, Merlin, dear,” she says, patting Merlin’s cheek. “You’ll catch flies.”

With Arthur still clearly occupied, despite Merlin’s best attempts to get his attention, Hunith gently steers Gwaine by the arm towards Uther.

“Uther, dear,” she says, smiling in such a way that she knows it brings out her dimples. “Let me introduce you to my new boyfriend, Gwaine.” How lovely to use the word “boyfriend” after all these years. She’s not sure whether it’s the champagne or what, but there’s a little frisson of excitement building in her tummy at the thought.

“Hunith!” Uther turns to her, an expectant smile on his face, but his eyes widen when he sees Gwaine, and it’s a good thing that his champagne flute is empty, because it almost falls from his slack fingers, and she only just manages to rescue it before it hits the ground and smashes.

Golly, this Gwaine must actually really look like someone very famous. More and more she wishes to congratulate Gwen on her superb choice. Really, if he’s going to have this impact on everyone in the room, she can tell she’s going to have more fun today than she’s had for years.

##

Her mobile phone has been buzzing away to itself for a good few minutes; she wonders what could possibly be so important. Frowning, she tugs it out of her handbag.

“It’s Gwen,” she tells Gwaine, puzzled. “I wonder what she could possibly want?”

Smiling down at her, Gwaine gently extracts the offending article from her gloved fingers. “Leave it,” he says. “You don’t get to be mother of the groom every day.”

She’s not used to being told what to do. She wouldn’t tolerate it from just anyone. But Gwaine’s eyes sparkle at her so charmingly, as he drops the phone back into her clutch bag, wrapping his warm, strong hand around hers as he snaps it shut, that she rather finds herself enjoying it. Particularly when he tops the manoeuvre off with a wink so appreciative that it sends delicate shivers running up her spine.

Licking his lips, he bends forward, his mouth close to her ear. It tickles when he whispers. “You’re going to be far too busy later, too, if I have anything to do with it.” 

“Cheeky!” she replies, feeling heat blooming on her cheeks.

Meanwhile, the heated discussion between Arthur and his sister has escalated into a noisy, whispered argument, drawing in Uther. The three of them are gesticulating wildly; voices are beginning to rise and the whole thing looks, in her experienced eye, like it could spill over into a downright row at any moment.

Arthur’s frowning; that tic in his temple has started, which always means trouble. 

Oh dear. This will not do at all. Poor Arthur. And poor, tense, unhappy-looking Merlin, stuck in the middle like that.

Inhaling deeply, eyes closed, to ground herself, she takes a moment to gather her thoughts before she steps between the warring Pendragons, dragging Gwaine in her wake.

She chooses her first target carefully.

“Morgana, dear. A quick word.” She plants a delicate kiss on Morgana’s cheek. Morgana’s very slender, and not much taller than Hunith. Her formidable presence holds no fears for Hunith, mother of the most stubborn, wilful and contrary child in his cohort, and victor of many a boardroom battle. “Morgana, you look simply stunning.” Hunith’s approach was a devastating combination of honesty, and an incisive empathy. “I have so been looking forward to this wedding, not least because I have always wanted a daughter; I like to think that once these two silly boys are wed, you and I can get to know each other better.”

Morgana’s eyes widen, and her air of cold disdain starts to melt under the warmth of Hunith’s charm offensive.

“Now, dear, what seems to be the problem?” continues Hunith, in a low voice.

“It’s the bloody seating plan,” says Morgana, a frown marring her pretty forehead. “Arthur’s insisting that I sit next to that pompous, UKIP-voting, semi-illiterate, xenophobic, arrogant arsehole, Cenred. I simply cannot tolerate having to be polite to such a foul-smelling, misogynistic...” as Morgana launches into what looks like it could be an extremely lengthy tirade about Cenred’s unacceptable political views, peppered with pithy statements about his personal hygiene, Hunith nods and reads between the lines.

“Morgana dear,” she says, quietly. Hunith has perfected the art of silencing the room without raising her voice. It’s all to do with stance, conviction, and an assumption that you own the situation.

Morgana’s voice trails off, and she stares at Hunith, open mouthed. “Yes?”

“I have high hopes for you, you know.” Hunith does. She always tells the truth; that’s what makes her words have impact. “You have enormous potential for business. You are quick, and insightful. You can be ruthless when you need to be. It strikes me that you would do extremely well, with mentoring. I would be more than delighted to be your sponsor.”

“Erm…” Morgana previous erudition evades her, all of a sudden. “Wow! Mrs Emrys… I mean, thank you! I… I have always admired…”

“Yes, dear. Of course. But you have much to learn. And one of the things you need to learn, and fast, is that there is a time and a place to kick up a fuss. This is not one of those times.”

She can see Morgana’s delicate throat move as she swallows. “I suppose not,” Morgana whispers. Her eyes seem very large, and her pale fingers terribly fragile on her wine glass.

Hunith nods, pressing home her advantage. “It’s Arthur’s special day. He has spent a long time—months!—planning it.” It’s true. Merlin has been on the phone to her, moaning about Arthur’s introspection, almost daily. “I refuse to stand by and let you spoil it for him and for my son by having petty squabbles about former conquests.”

Morgana bites her lip. Aha, yes. Hunith did know about that liaison. From the way that Arthur’s, Merlin’s and Uther’s heads swivel, they did not. Well, you don’t get to be in her position in business without a large network of intelligence-gatherers.

“And that goes for you, too, Uther Pendragon.” She’s half Uther’s size, but her indignant glare has him shuffling his feet and examining the ground like a kid who’s been caught with his fingers in the biscuit tin.

Smiling, Hunith delivers the final piece of the shit sandwich. “There, dear,” she says, placatingly to Morgana. “I knew you were better than that. You’ll be a fine businesswoman, and a wonderful daughter-in-law. So strong, so decisive. Oh yes, I am truly proud of you, Morgana.”

It’s round about then that Morgana notices Gwaine, standing by her side. Much to Hunith’s amusement, Morgana takes an involuntary step backwards, staggers on her towering stillettos, and almost crashes to the floor. Luckily, Gwaine, being a perfect gentleman, hurries to catch her before she can do any permanent damage to either herself or her couture.

“There you go,” he says, righting her with a smile, before stepping back to Hunith, squeezing her hand.

Poor Morgana must be flustered. She doesn’t even glare at him, which is most unlike her. Instead, she stands there, gaping, like an incredibly stylish fish.

“Oh, yes,” Hunith says, airily. “I almost forgot. Let me introduce you both to my lovely new boyfriend, Gwaine. Gwaine Greene. Gwaine? This is Arthur, soon to be my second son. And Morgana, of course, soon to be my daughter-in-law. There, darlings, I do hope you can be friends.”

 “Gwaine… Greene?” says Morgana, still gawping. “As in…”

“Yep,” says Gwaine, reaching forward to shake her hand, rather vigorously. Her limp arm flops up and down.

Arthur’s not much better. “Dear God,” he says, an incredulous smile splitting his handsome face in two. “It really is, as well. Pleased to meet you, Gwaine. I love your work.”

Now, what can Arthur possibly mean by that? Frowning, she’s about to turn to Gwaine, but Arthur hasn’t finished speaking, and her innate good manners hold her in check.

“Hunith,” Arthur’s saying, “I always knew you were a marvel.” He moves forward to plant a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Hunith,” he whispers, so that no-one else can hear. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you stepping in. And you look radiant, today. The colour suits you.”

Arthur’s so polite. Proud, of course, and formidable, like all the Pendragons, but with a sweet, soft centre that Merlin has coaxed from him. Hunith has always adored him; he and Merlin are so good for each other.

Arthur’s shaking Gwaine’s hand, now. “Welcome to my wedding, Mr Greene! It’s a real pleasure to have you here. Thank you for making Hunith look so happy, today. I do hope you continue to make her happy...” The two men exchange a loaded look; Hunith can almost feel the protective vibes emanating from Arthur’s solid shoulders.

She sighs, inwardly. He’s a good boy really, but she can take care of herself.

Meanwhile, from the various stunned reactions she’s been seeing from Merlin and his new family, Hunith’s beginning to have vague suspicions about the lovely Gwaine, who’s standing at her side with a studiously innocent expression on his face. How Gwen managed to pull this off, she really doesn’t know, but she’s already thinking about Christmas bonuses, promotions, and large bouquets of flowers.

It’s nearly time to go to the church. As they step out to the waiting car, Gwaine courteously holding her bag for her, she can feel his eyes on her, and finds herself blushing under his scrutiny.

“It suits you,” she says, with a low chuckle, nodding at her powder-blue clutch.

He barks out a laugh. “Fixing fights between terrifying, intimidating people suits you, too, so it does.” His lilting brogue has thickened, suddenly, and his expression is so admiring that she feels her face redden again.

“That was impromptu,” she says primly, sliding onto the back seat of the white Bentley, her silk skirt skimming smoothly across the pale, tan leather seat. “You should see what I can do when I plan.”

“I would love to see that,” he breathes, following her in and handing back her bag. From the way that his gaze touches her slight frame, she can tell it’s not the boardroom that he’s thinking of, but the bedroom. She looks around, hoping no-one can see the way that her cheeks glow. Thankfully, they’re the only people in the car, and the driver’s concentrating, so no-one sees Gwaine slip his hand along her silk-clad thigh.

Feeling tremendously daring, she eyes him coyly up and down. “Cheeky! I bet you say that to all your customers!”

Gwaine looks momentarily taken aback, but then squeezes her thigh gently with those strong, manly hands, so that her heart begins to race.

“Believe me,” he says, softly, gazing into her eyes, “I really, really don’t.”

She believes him.

##

It’s about a twenty minute drive to the church, and they’ve got loads of time, really, because Arthur’s such a dear, and no-one wants to upset his meticulously planned metaphorical applecart. But when Gwaine starts to lean forward, tilting his head gently to one side, Hunith begins to wish for a traffic jam to hold them up. They inevitability that they are to kiss thrills her to the marrow, and melts something in her core. Her eyes flutter closed.

His lips, surprisingly soft, taste of coffee and peppermint; his skin smells clean and fresh, but his cologne hints of something darker and altogether less seemly. Bristles gently graze her cheek.

“Well now,” he says gruffly, drawing away to gaze at her through twinkly eyes, but keeping a warm hand on her leg. “Don’t think I’ve ever kissed the mother of the groom before. It’s a rather lovely thing to do, so. I rather think I might do it again, don’t you know.”

“I certainly hope you do,” she says, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the giggles that bubble up in her throat. “I really don’t know why you stopped!”

His eyes are suddenly serious as he holds her gaze. “Well… it’s just there’s something… before we do that, anything like that, and believe me I’d like to, right now…” he sighs. All that Irish gift of the gab seems to have deserted him, and she’s about to say something cheeky about the Blarney Stone when he starts speaking again, more quietly this time. “Ach. Well. Let’s just say that there’s something I should tell you, so there is, and I don’t feel comfortable....”

Her phone chooses that moment to ring again, much to her disgust. Shrugging apologetically, she fishes it out of her bag, with the original intention of switching it off altogether, until she sees that it’s Gwen again.

She frowns slightly. What on earth is making Gwen so insistent on speaking to her on today, of all days?

“Look,” she says, with a smile that hopefully takes the sting out of the situation. “I really should take this. Gwen’s my PA, as you know. She wouldn’t be calling me so insistently if it wasn’t urgent.” His crestfallen expression makes her wonder what he had been about to tell her.

She presses the green “call accept” button and puts the phone to her ear. “Hello? Gwen? What is it?”

“Oh thank God!” says Gwen, her voice sounding concerned. “I was worried about you!”

“Why? I’m perfectly fine, Gwen. Oh, and thank you for the lovely escort you sent. He’s really perfect.”

“What? But he called me to say you weren’t there when he came round!”

Hunith frowns. “Don’t be silly, Gwen. Of course I was there! And he’s right here, now, next to me in the car!” She smiles at Gwaine. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

But the look he’s giving her is more a wince than a nod. “Ah,” he says. “About that…”

Hunith puts this new problem aside for a moment. One thing at a time.

“Oh!” Gwen’s saying. “Well, I haven’t got a clue what Lance was going on about, then! That’s a relief.”

“Lance?”

“Yes. Your escort. Lance.” Gwen’s sigh down the phone is loud. “He’s from the agency. I thought he’d be perfect. Isn’t he gorgeous? I hope you’re enjoying those dreamy eyes…”

“Lance? Oh no, dear. You must have got them muddled up. My escort is called Gwaine!”

“Gwaine?” Gwen’s voice is more of a shriek. It’s really unlike her to be so overwraught about something. “Gwaine’s in the car with you?”

“Why yes, dear. Very lovely he is too!” says Hunith, flashing Gwaine a knowing look. Goodness, is he blushing?

“But only I sent him to… That measly… Oh my God! I’m going to kill him! Hunith, I’m so sorry… He was just meant to bring my present! Didn’t he tell you? Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! That feckless, opportunistic, Irish... I’m going to kill him! I really, really am!”

Come to think of it, Gwaine does have a sheepish air all of a sudden. She quite likes it. Mind you, there’s not a lot to dislike about him. He’s obviously done something a little bit reckless, this morning. But Hunith really can’t complain. Oh no. Not when a rather gorgeous Irishman makes her all a-quiver like this.

“Don’t apologise dear.” Making a quick decision, she speaks rapidly into the phone. “Got to go now, dear. You’re breaking up!”

Making a crackly noise into the phone that’s meant to sound like static, she ends the call, turns off the phone, and stuffs it back into her bag.

##

Hunith taps on the window separating them from the chauffeur. “Percival, dear?” she says, when he opens the window. “Would you mind going round the block again?”

“Of course, Mrs Emrys,” says Percy. Such a nice boy, she thinks, fondly.

“So,” she says, turning to Gwaine, who’s fidgeting like a naughty schoolboy. When he leans forward, as if to distract her with another one of those scorching kisses, she pushes him away, eyeing him with her best boardroom frown. “Oh no you don’t! Spill the beans.”

He sighs, his curiously uneven eyes suddenly thoughtful. “I’m not sure I want you to know.”

“I’m paying you, Gwaine, remember?” she says, sharply. Her voice takes on the note of command she reserves for recalcitrant, blustering Chief Finance Officers trying to hide something unsavoury in the year-end accounts. “I expect complete honesty when I require it.”

He actually flinches. “Good God!” he says, defensively. “You really are something, you know that? You put the fear of God into me, so you do, ma’am.” He coughs. “I rather like it,” he adds in a low, teasing voice.

Steeling herself against his damnable attractiveness, she folds her arms. “I’m waiting.”

“Well, I’m…” He looks to the heavens, as if for inspiration, and then rummages in his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing into it.

It’s a thinly veiled stalling mechanism, and she knows it, but Hunith has learned to out-stare CEO’s, CFO’s, and, possibly the most challenging of them all, an extremely bright and stubborn toddler. He will cave eventually, she knows he will. She keeps her calm glare focused on him.

“Still waiting,” she says. “Or should I phone Gwen again?” She pulls her phone back out of her bag.

“No!” he says, looking panicky, and then he finally begins to talk, and rather fast at that. “For the love of God! I never could resist a masterful woman, I’ve my sainted mother to thank for that… and there you were, on your doorstep, so calm and commanding, how could I say no? I mean, you looked so perfect, in your sharp suit and all. And there you were, so pretty, looking me up and down all appreciative-like. And then it struck me, you didn’t even know who I was, and yet you liked the look of me. That’s so… well, for a man like me, it’s rather… you know… intoxicating?”

He pauses for breath, raking his hand through his glossy locks.

“Let’s just say, for one second,” she says, tilting her head so that she’s looking down her nose at him. “That I don’t. Know, that is. What sort of man you are. Because, Gwaine, and this may not be obvious to you, but you haven’t told me yet.”

“Erm. Right you are.” He gulps. She can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, tight behind his collar. “All right, of course, so you don’t. Fact is,” he says, taking her hand and gazing into her eyes. “Fact is, I didn’t tell you any lies, lovely Hun—Mrs Emrys. Fact is… well, not to beat about the bush… I am an actor. It’s God’s honest truth. And, believe me when I say I didn’t mean to deceive you in any way. Well. Maybe a tiny, teeny little bit, so.”

Hunith suspected as much. Giving a little nod, schooling her face to remain stern, she says “Go on? You’re an actor, and...? Care to tell me why everyone keeps falling at your feet like skittles?”

“Ah. Yes, that. Well, I have become quite well known, so. You know. Hollywood movies, chat shows and the like.” He looks down at his nails, almost demure. “It was rather nice, and all, when you seemed oblivious to all that crap… just wonderful, like. You know… flirting with someone who sees me as me, not that eedjit from the movies and the Graham Norton show and all. And then, well, you had to go and offer me a role, dintcha? That’s me; I’ll turn up to the opening of a shoebox if you pay me. Although my agent, Nim, will probably moan at me about the fee. Actually, do you mind not telling my agent? She’ll actually kill me. You don’t want me turning up at the bottom of the Thames with concrete tied to me ankles, now, do you—?”

She can tell that he could rattle on like this for hours.

“So, the kissing, Gwaine,” she says, severely. “The undress-me eyes. The—” her voice falters a little, “—the wandering hands. Was that all part of the act?”

“Oh, dear me, no!” He says, looking mortified. “I swear to God. I’m not that good an actor, Hunith. I’m hired mainly for my roguish good looks and Irish charm, not to mention it’s always helpful for casting directors if you’ve still got all your own hair. No, no no. When I saw you… well, like I say.” He leans forward, and with a flip of his hair, and a glint of perfect teeth, sends the full force of that famous Irish charm zinging her way.

Well, she can’t help thinking, he has a point. All that charisma, locked in one delicious, well-toned package, must be quite a thrill to see close up, on the large screen.

Even better in the flesh.

“I’m a sucker for bossy women,” he carries on, lip quirking up, like he knows he’s already won her over, and, God help her, of course he has. His voice, low and gravelly, sends a wonderful, urgent pulse coursing through her veins and she feels twenty years younger.

“Powerful women,” he adds, warming to his theme and edging closer to her so she can feel the heat of his thigh pressed firm up against hers.

Make that thirty.

“Women who know their own mind. Give me a straight-talking woman with, you know, firm opinions and some real-life experience. Rather than some vapid, self-obsessed little skinny-minnie in a training bra.”

She takes it all back. He definitely has the gift of the gab; he must have kissed that Blarney stone ten times over. She can’t help smiling at him.

But he has been a bad boy. Deftly, she removes her hands from his grip and whacks him soundly on the arm with her clutch bag.

“Ouch!” he yelps, rubbing his arm with such an obviously artificial hurt expression in his eyes that she can’t help laughing. “Careful! I normally get a stunt double for dangerous action shots!”

“That’s for leading me up the garden path, you big buffoon,” she says, fondly. “I’m the idiot, here; I did rather steamroller you into helping me out. And, as it turns out, I’m not unhappy with the outcome...” She gives him a sly look. “I’ve paid you, so I’d like you to continue with what we were doing before Gwen called me, and make it good, in case we have an audience.”

“Right you are, Mrs Emrys. In fact, I’ll be more than happy to do that, whenever you want. Free of charge,” he says, with a winning grin that warms her from her cheeks down to her toes, especially the parts in between. He’s starting to dip in for the kiss when she stops him with a well-placed finger.

“Do call me Hunith, please,” she says. “Oh... and Gwaine?”

“What?”

She smiles. “For God’s sake, get me to the church on time!”

 


End file.
